"Fine. And that's the story you'll tell the police when they come. Just that. You didn't see the car, so you can't describe it, but you heard it. You can, and will, describe the men. Not Green, just the three seamen."
"You are indeed a very crafty Russian, Illya," put in Solo. "Green won't know a thing. He said himself he would be out of touch. One will get you ten he'll be aboard that yacht of his. It's the best alibi he could possibly have."
"And it gives us a week to catch up with him, Napoleon. If we can't nail him by then we don't deserve our reputations."
"What are you two?" she asked, swiveling her eyes from one to the other in wide interest. "Secret agents or something?"
"Certainly not!" Kuryakin contradicted. "We're foreign spies!" He grinned at her. For a moment her mouth gaped; then she caught it and laughed. It was a beautiful sound, but it went on a little bit too long. Solo lifted a palm warningly.
"No hysterics now, Louise. You've done very well so far."
She made an effort, calmed herself. "You're very clever, anyway," she decided, "and I want to do something to help. Anything!"
"Let's all start by getting some clothes on," Solo suggested, and she shrieked as she realized she was completely nude. She flushed rosy pink all over. The two men turned tactfully away and hurriedly sorted out their clothes, pointedly taking care not to turn again until they were dressed. But she was still naked.
"I don't care!" she said defiantly. "After what I did, luring you two here to your deaths—and then you saved my life— it doesn't seem to matter very much, does it? I mean—" and she went pink again. "I've always been a bit vain about my shape."
"Here in your own home," said Kuryakin, "it is entirely your own business whether you wear anything or not. But you'd better put something on your feet. There's a lot of broken glass about. Napoleon, you'd better take your handkerchief and wipe anywhere we might have left fingerprints. I'm going to break in the back door, from the outside."
She followed them around, watching and listening as they cleared up the odds and ends. She carefully refrained from looking at the bodies as they were hauled out the back way into the car. The two men came together amid the wreckage for a final check, and then something went click in Solo's mind as he turned to Louise for one last assurance that she knew her part.
"Just a minute," he breathed. "What was all that Green said, about you not going to the ball? What ball? You were being taken by his chief, I think he said, didn't he?"
"That's right!" she nodded her coppery head. "Mr. Green got me a lovely dress for it. Would you like to see it?" Before they could say anything she was away into the bed room and groping in a wardrobe there. Seconds later she came out putting the last touches to a jeweled clasp on her left shoulder. The material was something sheer that looked like spun gold foam, like an intangible shimmer between them and her. It swooped from either shoulder and met under her thrusting bosom, then molded itself and clung like metallic haze down to the ground.
"Do you like it?" she asked uncertainly. "Do you think it's just a wee bit too revealing? Mr. Green said it would be just right for this one evening, as it's a rather special affair. He said the topless fashion is the 'in' thing with private parties now."
"It would have to be a very special affair, for that," Kuryakin said. "Do you know where?"
"Let me guess," Solo interrupted. "The Danby place."
"How did you know that?" Her voice was shrill.
"Tricks in all trades, Louise. This chief of Green's, do you know him? Who he is, I mean?"
She shook her head. "No. Green just told me where to go. It's tomorrow evening, and I'm to go and meet the chief at his house. It's all arranged. At least, it was!" Her face fell.
"Wait!" Solo thought hard. "Green said he would be out of touch, that he wouldn't be able to inform his chief."
"Steady on, Napoleon. Remember what happened to Mary Chantry."
"I haven't forgotten. You're right, Illya. Once of that is enough. Forget all about it, Louise."
She turned and went back into the bedroom while they carried out their final checkup. Solo managed to find one unbroken bottle amid the wreckage and rescued it. "We can use this for atmosphere in the car," he decided. "I think that's just about everything." He turned to see her return, as naked as a baby and with a determined look on her face.
"It's not everything," she declared. "Please, you two, look at me. You were going to ask me to do something and then you stopped because it might be dangerous. And it's not fair. I told you I would do anything. I want to. Look at me!" She spread her arms wide and appealingly. "What would I be now, if you two hadn't saved me? Let me help!"
"You don't need to be told what kind of people we are dealing with."
"Of course I don't. I know. What do you want me to do?"
"There's nothing much to it," Solo said swiftly. "Just go through with the party arrangements as they were made, go to meet the chief man—where's that, incidentally?"
"It's a private estate, a house called Piedmont, about twenty miles the other side of Norwood. I'm to take a taxi from the station."
"All right. If you do that, carry on as planned, go to the Danby affair—we will be there too. Don't acknowledge us. Just give some kind of sign, a touch of the hand to your hair will do, so we can identify the chief. That's all! We just want to know who he is."
"Nothing more than that," Kuryakin stressed. "And you can still back out, if you want to. Just say."
"I certainly won't back out. The one bit I don't like is that you'll be there and I won't be able to speak to you. I suppose you'll be with some other girls? Beautiful ones?"
"Only one," Solo grinned. "And—yes, she's beautiful, but not in your class, Louise."
"I'm glad you think I'm beautiful. I never really cared before, but I'm glad now. I suppose"—she was suddenly wistful—"once you're done with this job I'll never see you again, either of you."
"Hard to tell," Kuryakin said.
"You'll always be welcome."
"Yes. Well now..." Solo cleared his throat. "You know what to do? As soon as you hear the car drive off, wait five minutes and then ring the law. You know what to tell them? Right. Until we meet again." He had half-turned to the door, but she came quickly to catch him, to pull his head down and kiss him. Then Kuryakin. Then she stood back.
"Until the next time," she said.
Solo settled himself behind the wheel. Ponti's body lay stretched on the floor by his feet. The other two were in the back. Kuryakin was keeping his feet on them.
Solo let the car purr out of the alleyway and into the road, then up the gradient. Villas slumbered on the left, secure behind their hedges. On the right the slope fell away steeply, with young saplings here and there to provide a semblance of a wood. They came to a sharp left hand curve.
"This will do, Illya. Get down there, see if the road is clear. I don't want to smash up some innocent bystander." He kept the engine purring while Kuryakin went slithering and skidding down the grassy slope to the road below. Out of the gloom, within a few seconds, came a shrill whistle, twice. Solo sighed, tilted the whiskey bottle liberally over the bodies, let in the clutch, steered the car at the slope, then threw the door open and fell out briskly, rolling over and over three times before he could seize a sapling to halt himself. In the gloom he saw the pale bulk of the car go rolling onward and down. In a moment he saw Kuryakin come back up the slope, using hands and feet and staring back over his shoulder. Then there came a most satisfying crash and jangle.
They regained the road and began to walk back, nodding a silent goodnight as they passed The Nest. Five minutes more brought them to the stone steps and down in an official manner to the main road below. An elderly couple waited dismally at a bus stop. The man eyed them.
"Been here ten minutes," he complained, "and not a sign. I reckon it's gone. The last one."
"Last bus?" Solo queried. "Shouldn't worry, sir, I think it will be along. We're in a lucky mood tonight. Ah, there it co
mes now!"
The bus growled to a halt to let them aboard. They ran upstairs and were hardly seated before they felt the bus take a violent swerve to avoid a flaring obstruction. There, just off the left hand lane, a car stood on its nose in the ditch, ablaze. Five more minutes and the bus driver had to swerve again as a fire engine roared past, closely followed by an ambulance. Solo sat back and smiled.
"That's that," he murmured. "Up to Louise, now. I hope she tells the story properly."
"She will," Kuryakin said. "She's quite intelligent, despite her shape," and he whistled softly, paying no attention to Solo's stare.
NINE
NEXT MORNING, the room phone rang again. Solo answered it, to hear the switchboard girl tell him there was a lady on the line. With a fast gesture to Kuryakin he said:
"Thank you. Put her on," and he held his breath. But it wasn't Miss Thompson this time, although the voice was equally familiar.
"Mr. Solo?"
"Good morning, Miss Perrell. Nan. Nice to hear you. I was about to ring you, as it happens."
"Oh! Why?"
"Well, you remember that business about us being invited to the orgy at Danby Hall? We'd like to take it up."
"Are you deliberately trying to provoke me?"
"Not at all, but it seems a pity to miss such an occasion, especially since there doesn't seem to be anything else urgent. Or is there? I'm sorry, you rang me, didn't you?"
After a pause she sighed. "It wasn't urgent. I wanted to give you the name and address of a dealer who will fix you up with a small car and ask no awkward questions."
"That's very kind. One moment." He fished out a note book and pen. "Just off Tottenham Court Road," he noted.
Then, "About the Danby riot," said Miss Perrell. "You really want to go? Seriously?"
"Seriously," he confirmed, and heard her sigh again.
"It's a charity, you know. Can you afford it? There is no maximum, but the taken-for-granted minimum is one hundred pounds. In dollars—"
"Around three hundred, yes, I know. And yes, we can stand it."
"Very well, there's nothing more to say, I suppose. You can pick me up at my place in your new car, and I'll take you from there. Please be in properly formal clothes."
"All right. Not fancy dress?"
"No. Only the ladies are spectacular in this affair!"
Solo replaced the instrument and smiled thoughtfully; then he caught the glint in Kuryakin's eye and shrugged. "You heard. Charity."
"Some vacation! Thanks for helping me spend my own money!"
"Never mind. Think about the excitement, the thrills that set the blood coursing vigorously though the veins!"
"That part is fine. It's when it starts gushing out of the holes that I don't care for it. Napoleon, you go ahead on your own on this car business, I'm going to eat in. I'll pick you up later."
"Oh! Something in mind?"
"Nothing special. Only, the way the opposition is working at putting us away, they must be after something very important, and we have a very good information service right here. I thought maybe if I kept my ears open I might get a lead or two."
"Watch it now," Solo warned, "and see they don't wish some kind of job on you. Or us. Where'll I meet you?"
"Hmm!" Kuryakin mused. "For lunch, around twelve- thirty, at the Old Cock Inn. That's at the lower end of Fleet Street."
"Sounds something special. Is it?"
"Historical interest. As used by Charles Dickens, among others."
The "little car dealer" turned out to be a large and busy double fronted garage and service station, but by mentioning the name he had been given, Solo was rapidly passed from one to another until he wound up in an open area backing the gas pumps.
"Stone's the name," said a small, sharp eyed man in stained overalls. He put out a wiped hand in greeting. "You'll be Napoleon Solo, I reckon. I had a call about you."
"Good staff work. You'll know what I'm after, then?"
"I have just the job for you. This way." They halted by a car that made Solo lift his brows in wonder.
"She said small and inconspicuous, but this is a joke, isn't it?"
"Not on your life." Charlie Stone patted the red Mini affectionately. "This job may not be much to look at from the outside, but it's been worked over by an expert, let me tell you. Hop in!"
By the time Solo hopped out again he was convinced, and impressed. He was still a trifle breathless at the way a mere touch on the gas pedal brought instant and surging acceleration. Stone gestured him into a lean-to office and closed the door after them carefully.
"You'll have no trouble with her," he said, raking in a drawer for the necessary documents. "All I ask is, when you're done you bring her back here. On paper it will be a sale, and a trade in afterwards, but we don't need to bother about that, between us."
"That's very understanding of you."
"Never mind. There's something else you might be interested in. I don't know anything official, mind," Stone grinned wolfishly, "but I have a hobby. Might be in your line. This kind of thing." He slid something on to his desk, and Solo picked it up curiously. At first glance it looked like a rather thick strip of adhesive tape, flesh colored, eight inches long and an inch wide. Stone said:
"You peel off the backing, when you're ready, and stick it. Anywhere handy, like up the inside of your wrist. Or between your shoulder blades, if you like that better. For a woman, what with the way modern dresses are, on the inside of the upper arm is a good place. Anyway, once it's on, it won't come off easily, and it can't be seen. On this side, now..." He took it from Solo, and tugged at one end, where the surface was serrated, and all at once he had a knife in his hand. Three inches of it were pink padding, the remaining five were flexible steel. "This side's a razor edge, that's a diamond hard file along the other. Very handy."
"I agree. I've seen something just like this recently."
"I thought maybe you had. That's yours, if you want it."
Solo decided he did, and reached for his pocket, but Stone put up a hand.
"Compliments of the house, Mr. Solo. Just a hobby. I like to do what I can. There's all sorts of ways of helping out."
Solo reached the Old Cock about five minutes ahead of his appointment time, to find Kuryakin seated in the saloon nursing a pint mug of beer. The Russian agent looked up and grinned.
"Ask for Flowers," he advised, "and you'll get a pleasant Surprise."
"Got the car," Solo said, returning from the bar. "Show you it later. What did you get?"
"A lead or two. I dug up a newspaperman who used to work pretty closely with John Guard, swapping information. His name's Ray Carpenter; he should show up any minute now." Right on cue a long limbed, gangling man shoved through the door, stopped to look around, then came over to them with long strides.
"Kuryakin? Solo? I'm Carpenter. Shall we go straight in? I'm hungry, and I hate to rush a meal."
They followed him through into the rear regions, where there were small four seat tables in booths, red checkered tablecloths, old oak beams and an atmosphere of age. Carpenter ordered for all three, at their request.
"You can come back another time and soak up the atmosphere," he told them, "but right now the grub's the thing. You ask away, I'll do what I can to answer. All I know is that you're in the same game Johnny used to play, and he's caught it. At last. Can't say I'm surprised, the way he used to go at things, but anything I can do to hit the opposition, I will."
"He's not dead, you know," Solo offered. "In fact, unless we get on the ball, he's liable to break out of the hospital and go chasing them on his own. And these boys play it rough!"
"Can we get something straight first," Kuryakin murmured. "You're a newsman. We wouldn't want to strain your discretion."
Carpenter laughed. "I'll have to educate you the same way I did John. Look, forget the movie and TV version of a reporter, please. By them, all that comes in the ears pours out in print, regardless. Not true. I hear a thousand things I would li
ke to see in print, but I never will, because they aren't the kind of things the public is prepared to buy. And I assure you, I would never dream of reporting any thing from or about you, or U.N.C.L.E., without your express O.K. first. All right now?"
Carpenter went silent as he ingested a large mouthful, then broke out again. "To give you a sample, look at the current ruction going on about population control. Every newspaper in the land ought to propagandize in favor, but they don't. You know why? Freedom of the individual. Every man likes to think he is free to choose for himself whether or not he's going to have a family, and he won't like any newspaper that tries to tell him he has no right to that freedom. You know why, again? Subconscious. He can't help thinking that if that kind of idea was accepted in society, he might never have been born!"
"About playing rough." Solo brought the talk back to business. "We might be able to drop something for you, at that. The girl who was found in the sea at Hastings, for instance. Her name's Mary Chantry, and she didn't die at Hastings, but on the beach outside John Guard's bungalow. That's how it all started. Then, you may have heard about a teenage riot on the Embankment, night before last. That was us. Somebody tried to have us removed. Again, last night, over Watford way, somebody broke into a villa, smashed the place up, scared the occupier into hysterics, then crashed their car as they drove off. Three drunken seamen. That, also, was us. Same idea."
"You move around, don't you?"
"We try. But we don't know who we're striking at, and that's where you could come in. What do you know about one Absalom Green, for instance?"
"Nothing for you." Carpenter frowned over a couple of swallows. "He is a connoisseur-dealer objet d'art man, specializes in gem stones and small carvings, trinkets, jewelry that kind of thing. Wealthy, owns a yacht, is reputed to skate close to the fringes now and then, but nothing to prove it."
"Suppose I told you the yacht is not his, but belongs to the man he works for?"
"You told me, now I know what I didn't know before. Sorry."
"All right." Solo sighed, made passes at his plate. "What about the Countess of Danby, then?"
19 - The Power Cube Affair Page 9